


periphery

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: VLD One-Shots [35]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (but not really), Allura - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Art Restorer Shiro, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Magical Realism, Matt - Freeform, Minor Character(s), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Reincarnation, Romelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: Shiro wakes up and turns in his futon to look at the painting.There is a name on the tip of his tongue, well-loved and sweet.(Keith.)
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: VLD One-Shots [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/876162
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97





	periphery

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey this is apparently my 40th fic for voltron!! i've been hanging onto this idea for sheith for a while now, and i'm happy i finally got to turn [the thread from feb](https://twitter.com/redluxite/status/1231227617929416704) into a full fic ^__^ i'm a sucker for pining shiro (in case it's... not obvious LOL) and this in particular — this sensual intimacy, this slow-blooming longing — i love it. shiro's a little bit of a hopeless romantic under it all XD
> 
> this was supposed to just be a warm-up fic (and it's actually a revision of an earlier fic for a different ship) but it took me a while to finish, what with everything that's going on. i hope you guys are staying safe, and taking care of yourselves. and i hope this gives you a little bit of comfort, makes you a little bit happier amid the overwhelming circumstances of the world. 
> 
> edited as best as i can, but any further errors will be fixed in retrospect. i hope you enjoy the story!!

* * *

Shiro tries not to sigh in relief as he enters his personal studio at Atelier Altea.

It’s stupid, he knows — days off are as important as actual work, and they’re especially welcome when projects run long. It’s nice to go back to his own apartment for a change, sleep in a decent bed, take a long shower. Have home-cooked food. But while it’s refreshing for the first few days, by the fourth day, Shiro has had enough of binge-watching Code Geass. 

Rinse, repeat, recycle. Not that he’d have it any other way, though. He loves his job.

Matt had taken his latest project for packing and delivery last week, so now his easel sits empty. He sets his coffee on the table, then drops his duffel to the floor. A quick stretch, then he’s off in search of Allura.

( _Workaholic,_ says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Matt’s. Shiro would beg to differ, thanks very much.)

Shiro eventually finds her in the holding room with Romelle. His last project, the Juniper Castle landscape, is on one of the tables, wrapped up and labelled before it gets shipped off. Shiro gives it a fond pat (the flower details had been a _headache_ to fill in, but worth it), then wanders over to where the two women are standing over a painting. He peeks, curious, and—

( _Oh._ )

His breath catches in his lungs.

(High cheekbones, sharp-wing shoulders. The sloping meridian of a spine, draped with purple fabric. Eyes like the sky before dawn. An intense, slow-creeping feeling of longing, damaged and dirty though the artwork is.)

“Allura,” Shiro says, before he can even think. He doesn’t take his eyes off the painting. “I want this project.”

The words come out breathless, clipped, like they’re stuck in his throat. Shiro’s never wanted something so much.

“Well—” Allura bites her lip as she glances at Romelle, who looks at Shiro a moment then shrugs.

“If he wants it that much,” she concedes with a smile, and relief blooms in Shiro’s chest.

“Thank you,” he says, as sincerely as he can. And then, “does it have a title?”

Allura’s expression is both amused and bemused, but she beckons Shiro over and points to the back of the canvas. “We don’t know,” she admits. “There isn’t even a signature, just this.”

Scribbled on the canvas, half smudged away: _if it wasn’t for you,_

(If it wasn’t for you — what?)

“Pretty mysterious, isn’t it?” Romelle adds cheekily, waggling her eyebrows. Shiro chuckles and nods.

“Indeed.”

He starts the restoration by bringing the painting to his studio.

He doesn’t do anything yet, doesn’t bring out any materials or equipment. Before he works, Shiro likes to sit and learn about the painting. He finds the story (all paintings have them; there’s a history in the brushstrokes, the colors, the details). The painter is yet unknown; Allura had explained that the project is a commission by her collector friend, Lotor. It’s not an intricate piece — no complex background, no multitude of figures or objects. Under the dirt and the damage, it’s just the portrait of a boy looking somewhere out of frame.

Shiro sits on his stool, and searches.

The piece elicits an almost — uncomfortable feeling, as if the viewer were intruding on something private. It’s easy to imagine it from the perspective of a lover; someone who’d woken up one morning and seen this: their beloved sitting there, half-turned to them, bathed in sunlight.

Shiro looks at the painting and wonders how much more breathtaking this sight might have been, in real life.

( _Intimate_ — that’s the word he’s looking for. Intimate and familiar. Someone well-loved. A sense of _want._ )

He shakes his head, shifts his perspective to something more analytical. Shiro inspects the paint, the brushwork, the style. The painting is badly-kept — it’s dusty and dirty; faded and patchy in places, yellowed in others. He carefully turns the painting around to pry out the nails tacking the canvas to the frame, so he can check the excess and see if the original color has been preserved. He’ll take swatches later, to match them. Then he notes the damage, finds where he’ll have the most work to do. Everything gets documented meticulously in a notebook, for reference and records later on.

Then he studies the subject: the wide eyes, lightly-parted lips; the slope of the shoulders. There’s what looks like a tiny beauty mark on the boy’s back, just above the shoulder blade. The cloth looks like it’s halfway to slipping off (or perhaps being slipped on?).

It’s a powerful impression. Like the painter had known their subject dearly, all the dips and lines of their body, the patchwork of their skin. 

(Like _Shiro_ knows this boy, somehow. Like an echo.)

His fingers hover over the canvas, following the shape of the body, of colors. Briefly, he wonders what the real thing would feel like under his touch. The thought comes unbidden, intrusive. Shiro startles and pulls his hands away.

He inhales, exhales. Curls his hands into fists, slow, like a reset. Then he lifts the canvas fully off the frame, and gets to work.

The restoration process is painstaking, meticulous, and slow. 

First, Shiro spreads the fabric out on a work table in the lab, weighing it flat. He takes note of the tiny words scratched onto the back of the canvas, covering them in a strip of clear tape. Then he places protective facing on the front, before turning the canvas over and starting to clean the back with a scalpel and brush.

Afterwards, he flips it back, inspecting the piece under ultraviolet light. He squints at the varnish, the pigments; carefully brushes on solvent to gauge the true colors underneath. Methodically, inch by inch, Shiro parses the painting. He photographs the details in stages. Analyzes each stroke.

Slowly, he finds the real painting underneath, and it takes his breath away.

(That longing — it creeps between his ribs, settles into his lungs, wraps threads around his heart.)

When he’s finished removing the old, yellowed varnish and has cleaned up the painting as best as he can, Shiro restretches the canvas on a new frame. He takes it back to his studio, sets it onto the easel in the middle of the room. Now that it’s cleaner, he’s got a better visual of what the work looks like. The expression is patchy, but the rest of it — the shoulders, the back, the fall of dark hair; the angle of the subject towards something Shiro can’t see — it’s clearer.

He reaches out a hand, fingers hovering over one shoulder.

He wonders what this boy’s name is.

It’s getting late. Shiro has a quick meal from the Vietnamese place two blocks over, then spreads out his futon at the back of the studio. Part of him misses his bed already, but he’s used to this routine. With the painting in his peripheral vision, he falls asleep.

He’ll start painting in the morning.

That night, Shiro dreams of sitting in a studio — a different one, with brighter sun, tall open windows, fresh air. There’s no hum of the airconditioner, no artificial LED lighting. Shiro has a brush in hand, with paints spread out on a nearby table by his elbow. When he looks up, the painting he’s working on is there, the same as it is in real life. Shiro thinks if he were to reach out, start painting, he’d see what it really looks like, but—

Someone approaches from behind him. Hands brush past his shoulders, slide down his chest. The person bends down and murmurs, soft breath and a laugh, “That’s enough for today.”

Shiro startles awake in the dim light. He can still feel the ghost of a touch on his own skin. Can hear the echo of a warm voice in his ear. Can feel the dream at the edges of memory. He sits up slightly, looks at the painting. Nothing has changed.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lies back down to sleep.

He doesn’t dream again.

In the morning, Shiro heads to their reference library.

There has to be _some_ record of this painting, somewhere out there. Shiro searches for artists of a similar style, no matter how obscure. He searches for works of a similar theme and composition. He searches for simple portraits of young men. Shiro refuses to let a lack of signature or title deter him. He wants to restore this work properly, and the best way to do that is to see if the artist has any more pieces — if there are other portraits of this boy.

Several hours of research turns up a whole lot of nothing. Shiro sighs in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. With so little information to go on, all this digging feels futile. Still, the scope of art history is overwhelmingly large; surely _something_ will turn up. He just has to... find it.

Matt appears and spots him surrounded by stacks of books, browsing a catalogue of lesser-known Renaissance artists.

“Looking for mystery boy?” his friend asks, leaning on a precarious stack of Rococo references. Shiro hums distractedly in response, flipping through the next few pages.

Matt sighs, then pries the book from Shiro’s hands and shuts it firmly.

“You,” he declares, “are taking a break.”

Shiro glares at Matt. Matt raises an eyebrow in response.

“Come on,” he adds. “The painting’s not going anywhere.”

They end up getting dinner out, and then coffee, although Matt can’t get him to stay out for drinks. Shiro still insists on going back to the studio to sleep. He can’t explain it, but something about the painting compels him to return. It’s stupid, but—

He’s worried that if he leaves it alone for too long, the painting will disappear.

(It’s not rational, he knows. And yet.)

The soft light of his floor lamp bathes the painting in a warm glow. Shiro leans back on his stool and just — looks. His gaze traces the borders of missing paint. He wonders what he’ll dream of tonight.

(He doesn’t, and in the morning he feels almost — disappointed. But he wakes with a name at the periphery of memory, on the tip of his tongue.

He glances up, then sighs and goes to get breakfast.)

Armed with fine brushes and several dozen pigment tubes, Shiro begins to repaint.

He starts with the background, squinting at the canvas through a jeweler’s visor. It’s a painstaking effort to match the shades of grey. Slowly, one stroke at a time, Shiro fills in the missing color, starting from the edges of existing paint and working inwards. It’s slow, tedious, meticulous work, but it’s his favorite part.

He takes breaks every hour to stretch and blink the impending headache away, let his vision rest. Matt drops by with lunch. Allura comes to check on his progress, commenting on the colors and offering advice. Every so often Shiro will stop and take pictures, document each stage of restoration. When it’s late enough at night that Shiro’s back is complaining and his eyes hurt, he gets dinner and goes to sleep.

His dreams remain infuriatingly ambiguous — brief touches, small blooms of warmth. A soft, lilting voice in his ear, although in the mornings Shiro can never remember the words. Sometimes he goes to the library and digs through the books to try and find something, anything. Art style, color use, theme; anything he can think of. He consults Allura and Romelle, but neither of them have clues. Not even Lotor knows, apparently. According to Allura, he’d simply stumbled upon the painting somewhere in Daizal, and had felt — compelled, almost, to buy it.

Shiro returns to the shelves and keeps looking.

One day, in an anthology of undocumented works from when Daizal was still Daibazaal, he finds it.

Not the painting he’s working on, but two other pieces. Both works have the same subject as his current project, although he hasn’t seen it in its entirety yet. It’s the same boy, he’s sure; the same stripped art style. The same dark hair and sun-kissed skin. Without tearing his eyes from the page, Shiro fumbles for a stool and hefts himself up.

The two artworks echo the same intimate feeling — like an intrusion into something private, something not meant for other people’s eyes. One piece features the boy in a bed, blanket draped over his torso, back to the viewer. Shiro idles a finger down the meridian of that spine; follows long legs stretched over sheets. There’s a space beside the boy on the mattress, as if someone had just been there; as if someone had sat up and seen something so beautiful beside them, they’d felt compelled to paint.

Shiro drinks in the details: the dappling sunlight, the fall of fabric; the play of shadow over the body. The way the subject is rendered, as if in worship. There’s a desire in this, one he thinks he understands.

Then he turns the page, and his next inhale stalls in his lungs.

It’s another portrait, one from a high perspective, as if the viewer is looking down. It feels like a frozen moment, like someone had called the boy’s name and he’d looked up; like he’d been caught in the middle of a motion. Shiro touches fingers to the rendering of the same deep purple fabric, gathered tightly in one fist. Eyes wide, cheeks faintly pink; lips lightly parted, soft, as if waiting to be kissed. And the _eyes_ — violet-grey like the sky before dawn, like they contained galaxies.

He’s as beautiful as Shiro imagined.

The book goes with him to his studio when he returns to work.

He leaves it open on his work table while he picks up his brushes and pigments. As he resumes painting, Shiro breathes into empty spaces between ribs and tries not to think about what it would be like to _feel_.

He inhales ( _three, five, seven, hold_ ), exhales. Goes back to work.

When Shiro moves to the fabric falling loosely off the subject’s shoulders, he wonders: is it being pulled off, or back on? He looks at the beauty mark on the shoulder and imagines soft cloth brushing past as it slides down the body, baring a canvas of skin. Imagines sunlight turning that skin flush with color, warm under a palm or an open mouth, soft under fingers.

There is a tremor under Shiro’s skin, a slow-blooming longing. He paints and imagines and feels static in his lungs.

That night, he dreams.

He’s back in the studio, sketchbook and pencil in hand. The page is empty. Sunlight bathes the room. Chatter filters through from the street below the windows.

There’s a rustle nearby, and then warmth falls over him. Someone has leaned in close; there’s a brush of skin on skin.

 _What time is it?_ someone asks in a laugh. Quiet, easy, comforting.

Shiro wakes up and turns in his futon to look at the painting.

There is a name on the tip of his tongue, well-loved and sweet.

( _Keith._ )

Shiro’s days pass as the painting unfolds in front of him, reveals itself inch by inch. Something electric thrums quietly beneath his skin as he moves to painting the body. His gestures are careful, almost reverent, as the skin blooms under his brush. He wonders what the boy would feel like — the boy on the bed, on the floor, in this painting. Shiro imagines softness, imagines trembling limbs under his palms, and exhales through parted lips. Sometimes he has fleeting thoughts of sun-kissed skin, dented by fingers that press in, rose and gold and beautiful. The static turns into sparks that spread through him, fill his lungs.

He thinks of the artist, of the feelings they’d conveyed in such simple artwork — adoration and affection. Intimacy and desire. _Worship_ , almost.

(He does not think about how the same feelings now creep between his ribs and stitch themselves into his heart.)

He hesitates to start painting the face, instead touching up other parts of the canvas. If he were more honest, Shiro would admit he’s avoiding it. He’s still not sure how to paint it, can’t quite imagine the expression that had been hidden under smudges and dirt. Still, he knows he can’t put it off forever.

On one afternoon, he sets down his brushes, takes off the visor. Digs fingers into the bridge of his nose, into his temples, then sighs.

Time for a break.

He gets dinner with Romelle and Allura. It’s the first time he’s left the studio again after days of ordering delivery, holed up with his paints and his longing. They buy dessert and eat it back at the break room of the atelier. They talk about things unrelated to work.

Then Shiro goes back to his studio, and gets ready to sleep.

(He’s in that other studio, half-dressed, pants slung low over his hips. Sunlight streams through the windows, the soft streaks of an early morning. Outside, he can hear the city begin to wake up. There’s a rustling behind him; Shiro turns and sees the boy — sees _Keith_ in bed, blanket falling from his body as he sits up. Keith rubs the sleep from his eyes, then tugs the blanket around his body, leaning over languidly to peer out a nearby window.

Shiro looks at him, and says, “Keith.”

The boy pauses. Shiro reaches for his pencils, shifts the blank canvas beside him. Pulls up a stool.

Says (quiet, commanding), “look at me.”

Keith half-turns his head, blanket falling from his shoulders. Shiro catches him mid-movement, “wait”; then softer, “stay.” And Keith’s body steadies, as if holding some well-worn posture. His eyes are playful, knowing, fixed right at Shiro from across the room. Then that gaze flicks away as he exhales, lines of his body going loose.

 _Ah,_ Shiro thinks. _There you are._

He takes a moment to just — _look,_ awed by how breathtaking this boy is in so simple a pose. Something warm and overwhelming blooms in his chest.

Then he lifts the graphite to canvas, and begins to sketch.)

In the morning, Shiro takes out some solvent and a container of cotton swabs. With small, precise gestures, he clears away the paint where the boy’s face would be, leaving a blank expanse to fill. He takes a few moments to air out his studio a bit, then lines up his equipment. He takes his brushes, his pigment tubes, and he sits on the stool.

For a moment, Shiro sits there and breathes and remembers the face in his dreams. The expression on Keith’s face; the color of those stunning eyes. 

He paints.

The hours pass. Shiro fills in color, little by little. He breathes, in-out, in-out. Feels the static under his skin, the thud of his heartbeat.

He paints.

In the evening, long after the sun has set, Shiro leans back and rolls his shoulders. He sets his equipment aside and tugs off his visor. He squeezes his eyes shut and digs the heels of his palms into the lids, until he’s warded off the worst of the exhaustion and the headache. Then Shiro opens his eyes and looks at the painting.

That quiet, overwhelming feeling fills him again, pools in his lungs and seeps into his bones. His hands shake ever so slightly. As his eyes move from Keith’s face, down the turn of his neck to the latitude of his shoulders, Shiro feels a flush bloom over his cheeks, warm, almost an intoxication.

Partly in a daze, partly tentative, Shiro shifts.

Eyes closed, breath caught in his lungs, he leans forward

and presses his lips to the painting in a kiss.

Shiro tastes pigment. Feels the telltale texture of dried paint. He pulls back, opening his eyes, and—

The boy in the painting gazes out, unchanged, unmoving.

Shiro doesn’t even know what he’d wanted to happen.

He stares, half-caught in the moment, before exhaling and standing up. For a while he simply looks at his work, mind a little fuzzy. He knows he should go get dinner, then get ready for bed. He’s almost finished restoring the painting; he can do the rest in the morning. But turning away from the painting almost — _hurts,_ even if he can’t say why. He can’t explain, can’t translate the complicated tangle in his chest, but—

(He feels drawn to this painting, to this boy. Feels as if he could just reach out and draw back a curtain, and Keith would be there for real.)

Shiro breathes, in-out, in-out. Tears himself away.

He can complete his work tomorrow.

(If he’s honest — Shiro would admit he doesn’t want to finish, doesn’t want to let this painting go. Doesn’t want to let _Keith_ go. He tries to tell himself it’s just a painting but it’s not, it’s not. He can’t say why but it’s — it’s not.)

When morning comes, he takes his time — idles over breakfast, slowly sets up his equipment. But he can’t avoid this forever, he knows. He can’t be selfish.

His brush hovers over the canvas for a still-beat, then he resumes.

Much later that night, the painting is complete.

Shiro sets down the brushes, the palette. Tugs the visor from his eyes. Rubs the soreness from the ridge of his forehead and his temples. Stands up.

He’s hungry, but it’s too late to get anything to eat. Shiro makes do with cold tea and crackers from the break room, then cleans up in the small bathroom of the atelier. The cool water makes him feel a little more human, a little more in the present. When he returns to his studio, he pauses a little just to look at the painting.

Something in him burns, suffocates like splinters.

He turns away, gets ready for sleep.

His dreams are scattered, hazy. He finds himself looking for eyes like a galaxy, like the sky just before dawn. A familiar, lilting voice calls his name. Soft, like a litany and a prayer; something quiet and warm and intimate—

_“Takashi.”_

—and _real._

Shiro opens his eyes. All the studio lights are off, except the lamp he has by his futon. Moonlight filters through the high windows. He sits up and stares and meets eyes crinkled in amusement. A quirk of a mouth, the sweet line of a throat. A flush high on cheekbones, as if Shiro himself had painted over them.

Shiro stares, and aches, and forgets how to breathe.

Keith brushes slender, paint-smudged fingers over Shiro’s cheek. His touch is warm.

“Here you are,” he says, and Shiro feels set alight.

Keith in the flesh is — breathtaking. Shiro can’t tear his eyes away, wouldn’t even if he could. He stares and begins to remember: inhale, exhale. He stares, and the other boy smiles back in immeasurable fondness, like Keith knows him.

(Like Keith loves him.)

“I’ve been waiting, Takashi,” he laughs, and the words are so sweet, so intimate. There is a slow-blooming longing in Shiro’s chest that aches because he feels like he’s heard those words a thousand times before. And he would give anything to keep hearing his name in Keith’s voice, as if it were grace.

“Were you painting again?” Keith asks, exasperated and fond. He reaches for Shiro, well-worn fingers over wrists, gentle. “Come to bed,” he teases, the same as he’d said on so many other nights, because this is a long-familiar exchange between them. Keith leans forward, sheets slipping off his body, lips parting on a breath and Shiro—

Shiro 

wakes 

up.

Sunlight streams through the windows. Brushes and paints lie scattered over his work table. The painting sits on its easel, fully restored, ready for a final coat of varnish. 

Shiro sits and stares and breathes into empty spaces, and feels like something lost.

In a while, he stands and leaves for breakfast.

As he walks across the room, Shiro pauses in front of the painting. He lifts a hand, fingers hovering over paint. Keith is as he has always been — looking somewhere just out of frame, a sweet moment laid out on canvas.

Slowly, Shiro exhales, and leaves.

The next day, he returns the book to the library. He hands it to Veronica, adding a memo that the atelier has an additional painting related to the two in the reference, and that he’s sending all necessary documentation to Allura. He drops by the lab to leave some tools for cleaning later, then accepts an invitation to lunch with Matt.

After the meal, he heads over to Allura’s office.

She glances up from some files when he knocks on the doorframe. “Oh — Shiro.”

“I’ve finished,” he tells her.

Allura blinks, frowning, then realization dawns. She smiles softly.

“I’ll look it over later.”

Shiro returns to his studio.

The painting sits on its easel.

He perches on his work stool, and looks at it.

The work is complete now — no more patchy sections, no more smudged or faded paint. He only recognizes the areas he’s filled in because he’s memorized the borders, the areas that had been blank before he’d put back the color. Shiro’s eyes flick over the sharp latitude of those shoulders, the beauty mark; down the line of the back as it disappears under fabric. The sun-dappled skin. The high cheekbones. The eyes.

His fingers brush over the paint, just once.

He’s returning his supplies to their boxes and shelves when Allura comes in. She’ll do a more thorough assessment later, inspect his work under a magnifier and specialized light, but for now she simply checks it with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. She lets him know that Veronica will come take the painting later that day for cataloguing, then Lotor will pick it up in a few weeks — the earliest he can make it from Daizal. Shiro nods, exhaling more forcefully than he means to.

Allura pats his arm, then squeezes it once, comforting.

“Good work,” she tells him, warm and sincere. Shiro smiles in answer.

“Thank you.”

Shiro has met Lotor several times before; this is not the first work the man has commissioned them to restore. He’s delighted to see the painting in full, although disappointed they don’t have the artist’s name. He promises to get the name of the reference from Veronica so he can try to find the other pieces, do some independent investigating.

“You have to wonder, though,” he muses, corner of his mouth curling in amusement.

“Wonder what?” Shiro asks, glancing at him.

“The inscription.” Lotor gestures at the painting. “ _If it wasn’t for you_ — what? What did the artist want to say about him?”

Shiro looks at the artwork again, thinks of fabric sliding down skin. Thinks of a laugh pressed into his shoulder; imagines palms digging into slim hips, sharp breaths against his neck. Remembers fingers brushing over his cheek. A low, warm voice. Eyes like the sky before dawn. That slow-blooming longing, whose roots are now so deep in his heart he has no hope of tearing them out.

“What indeed,” he murmurs.

He returns to the studio to pick up his things. Everything’s been cleaned up and put away, a reset before his next project. The easel in the middle of the room is empty. His futon is rolled up and stored away; he’ll have it laundered soon. The sun streams through the windows, painting the room in the rose and gold of late afternoon. 

Everything is quiet.

Once his bag is packed, Shiro leaves.

After dinner with Matt in celebration of another finished project, Shiro returns home to his tiny apartment. In bed, he closes his eyes, imagines Keith there beside him, warm and bright. Imagines his bedsheets falling over the curve of Keith’s hip, covering long legs. The rise and fall of his chest as he dozes, half-lit by the lamp at Shiro’s bedside.

For a moment, he wishes painfully that it was real.

Shiro thinks about the person he is in his dreams — the artist behind the paintings. He wonders how the artist had met Keith, doesn’t fault them for feeling compelled to paint such a beautiful boy, nor for falling in love with him. He recalls the dreams, the way Keith had looked in those visions.

The city outside falls quiet as Shiro falls asleep.

He doesn’t dream.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! ^ ^ hopefully that wasn't too repetitive?? and hopefully you liked the fic and shiro, pining over a love he may have once had, in another life. the epilogue to this is up exclusively on [@aya_creates](https://twitter.com/aya_creates), and maybe features a different keith 👀 otherwise, come say hi on social media! i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) and you can find me yelling about haikyuu, sheith, and bnha XD


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